Chapter V: Easter Tide (2)

I stopped, for I did not wish to repeat all that Lady Jemima had said.

My Lady smiled.

"Well, well!" said she. "My sister meant well, no doubt, and so did you. But remember, sweetheart, that your time and your health are not altogether your own, and that you must first do your duty in the state of life to which you have been called. I am not angry with you, child, so you need not look so downcast."

"But, mamma!" said Betty, anxiously, "Margaret and I want to make some more clothes for the twins, and for their mother. You don't mind that, do you? I do love it so much, and I am learning to work nicely. Margaret says so."

"O no. That is quite another matter. Let me see this same work."

So I brought out our basket, and Lady Betty displayed all we had accomplished between us, scrupulously avoiding the taking any more than her due share of credit. She is a wonderful truthful child. My Lady examined the work, and seemed much pleased.

"You have done wonders," said she. "But whose work is this pretty christening dress, for so I presume it is?"

"That is Margaret's!" said Lady Betty, as proud of the modest little row of satin stitch, as if she had done it herself. "Is it not pretty, mamma?"

"Very pretty, indeed!" replied my Lady.

"Margaret knows how to do all kinds of pretty work," continued Betty. "She can work tapestry, and make knotting, and knit!"

"Margaret is a wonderful person, no doubt. I think we are much obliged to good Mr. Carey for bringing her to us. You must ask her to teach you some of these feats of hers," said my Lady. "Have you any of your work by you, Margaret? I should like to see it."

I had some few little pieces, so I brought them, and my Lady looked them over, and was pleased so to commend them, that I found courage to make my request, which was that she would let me work something for the baby that is coming, on the fine linen that my aunt sent me. She consented, on condition that I should not abridge my hours of recreation.

"But how shall you manage about Betty?" she asked. "I suppose she knows naught of the matter, and she will be all curiosity about your work."

"If I might venture to speak my thoughts about that, my Lady," said I, and then stopped, fearing I was too bold.

"Well!" said my Lady. "Speak out. Your thoughts are usually to the purpose, I find."

Thus encouraged, I did venture to tell her what I was thinking of—namely, that she should tell Lady Betty herself.

"You see, my Lady, she is sure to find out in some way. Lady Jemima is very outspoken, and the maids will talk: and if she learns the story from you, she will be less likely to take up any wrong impression, or to ask inconvenient questions. My mother did so by me when Jacky and Phillis were born, and she said she thought it the best way."

"Your mother has made a wondrous wise maid of you!" said my Lady. "I wonder she could make up her mind to part with so notable a daughter."

I told her that Dick and myself, being the eldest children, were obliged to do what we could to help the others, dear father's death having left us poor, and besides, I said, people at home did not give me credit for so much wisdom.

She laughed and said something about a prophet being without honor in his own country. And then bidding me take a good long walk, and enjoy myself in the fresh air, she went back to Lady Betty, and I took my bundle of work and went down to the almshouses.

They are pretty cottages enough, five in number, and stand on the village green, near the church-yard. I thought the thatch would be the better of mending in some places, but, on the whole, they looked comfortable, though not so nice as ours at Saintswell. I wonder, by the way, whether Mr. Carey will hold Sir Peter Beaumont up to the point of keeping them in repair, as my father used to do.

Well, I knocked at the door of the first one, and a voice said, "Come in!" so I entered.

There, in her bee-hive chair, sat an old woman look so like dear Dame Crump that I could have kissed her. She made me most civilly welcome, and asked me to sit down. I told her that I had brought her a cap and petticoat, which Lady Jemima had left for her. She smiled, and said my Lady was very kind, but I can't say she showed any great enthusiasm about the matter.

"You will be the young lady now to take care of my Lady Betty," she said, presently.

I told her I was.

"And how is she, poor dear maid? No better, I suppose?"

I told her I thought Lady Betty was stronger than when I came, adding that I believed the fresh air did her good.

"No doubt, no doubt!" said Dame Yeo, for such I found was her name. "Fresh air and good food are better than doctor stuff. You are not from this part of the country, Madam, or so I judge, from your speech?"

I told her I was from a little village not far from Chester.

"Chester!" said she, musingly. "I had a sister that married and went to live somewhere near Chester. Her husband was a sailor, and when he went away on his long voyage to the Indies, Madge went to live with his old mother. She was much older than I. I doubt she is not alive. A fine stout lad was Thomas Crump, and Madge was a handsome maid as ever I saw. But she would be near a hundred an' she were living. I am past eighty, myself."

The resemblance to my old friend was explained.

"I can give you news of your sister, I believe," said I. "She is still living in one of the almshouses in Saintswell, and though old, as you say, is well and cheerful. I saw her the day before I left home."

Never was any poor old creature so pleased. The tears ran down her withered cheeks, as she thanked God again and again for sending her news of her sister. I told her all I could think of about Dame Crump, and when I had stayed as long as I could, I rose to go.

"Come again, my dear, tender soul! My dear young lady, now do, wont-e?" she said, detaining me with a trembling hand. "It does seem to do me good to see you!"

"And I am sure you have done me good," I answered. "It is so pleasant to talk of home."

"Aye, that it is—that it is!" replied Goody Yeo. "There is no place like home, my maid; now is there? There, bless thy heart! I didn't mean to make thee cry. Don't-e cry, now, but keep up a good heart, dear soul, and when you are downcast, think about the home above. We shall all meet there, you know!"

"Can I do aught for you, Goody, before I go?" I asked, brushing the drops from my eyes.

"If it wouldn't be asking too much, if you would just take the Bible and read me a psalm and chapter. My eyes are not worth much nowadays, though I do spell out a verse now and then."

"What shall I read?" I asked.

"Oh, the psalms for the day, first of all."

So I read the psalms for the day, the old woman listening devoutly, her wrinkled face full of peace. Then, at her request, I read the last chapter of Revelations.

"And to think that is all ours—our purchased inheritance!" said Goody, when I had done. "Truly we need not murmur over the hardships of the way when it leads to such a home at last."

The old woman does not seem to have any of those doubts which Mr. Penrose thinks we ought to have, to keep us humble. I would have liked to talk farther with her, but I had stayed too long already. I see the cushion of her chair is worn out. I will beg some pretty piece of my Lady, and when Betty has finished her present work, she shall make a patchwork cushion for Goody Yeo.

Goody Hollins was in a very different mood. The world was out of joint, according to her. Nobody cared for her. Parson never came to see her, and Mistress Parnell was always corsetting up Goody Yeo and old Master Dean with good things, while she had nothing to eat, and nobody would care if she starved.

"Nobody don't take no care of we!" were her last words. "We is naught but poor old folk that they just want to get rid of!"

She was deaf as a post, so there was no use in talking to her.

I found Gaffer Dean, a cheerful old man, sitting out in the sun, and as chirruping as an old cricket. I would have liked to stay longer and chat with him, but the afternoon was wearing away, and I wanted to call at the Rectory.

Mistress Parnell made me welcome, as usual. I told her I had been at the almshouses, and she laughed at my account of Goody Hollins.

"I carried her a jug of broth this very day!" said she. "But the poor old soul is sadly crabbed and cankered."

"She seems to think that every one neglects her," I said: "even her own daughter."

"Her daughter has as much as she can do and more to take care of her own," said Mistress Parnell. "Besides that, she is and always was a sad slattern. Even Mistress Ellenwood could make naught of Peggy Hollins." And then she told me a great deal which I have not time to set down here, about Mistress Ellenwood the schoolmistress, and all the good she had done.

_May 18._

I have begun my work for my Lady, which I think will be very pretty. The lawn is so fine it shows the embroidery to great advantage, and the thread Aunt Willson sent with it is just the thing.

Betty has heard the secret, and seems to take it kindly. She says little, but I see that she is turning the matter over in her own mind, in her silent fashion. Last night, after I had put her to bed, she asked me:

"Margaret, do you think the baby will love me, when it comes?"

"Yes, if you are a good kind sister!" I answered.

"You don't think mamma will leave off loving me then, do you, Margaret?" she asked again, with a quivering lip.

"No, of course not," said I. "She will love you all the more, and if you are a good girl, and try to learn, you can be a great help to her by and by."

This notion seemed to comfort her, and she lay down contented.

_May 30._

This morning Lady Betty walked farther than she had ever done before. She is delighted with being out of doors, and it certainly does her good. The wild flowers, of which the wood is full, are an endless delight to her, and she is never weary of gathering them and observing them. This morning she saw a squirrel. The dog ran after it, and Betty was in a terrible taking lest he should hurt it, but it escaped easily enough, and sat on a branch, scolding us, at which the child was delighted.

She is certainly stronger, and complains much less than she did, either because she really suffers less, or because she has more to think about, and so dwells the less on her own discomforts. She has not had a crying fit in a long time. I talk to her about all sorts of things—about the village and the poor people here and at home, and everything else I can think of to interest her. She was much delighted with my story of finding Dame Crump's sister in Goody Yeo, and in hearing of Gaffer Dean's jackdaw, which I forgot to mention in its place. She wished she could go down to see it. I wish she could. I wonder much whether she could learn to ride a donkey?

_June 1._

Mr. Penrose is come back, but not Lady Jemima. He brought letters for my Lord and Lady from her, and one from Felicia to me—the most cordial I have ever had from her. Perhaps if we do not see each other for a year or two longer, we shall become quite intimate and friendly. Felicia, seems to have seen a good deal of Lady Jemima, and has much to say in her praise.

Mr. Penrose has brought down some beautiful furniture for the chapel—candlesticks, vestments, and what not, and he is busy arranging them in order. He would have had me help him, but I could not leave Lady Betty, who has been ailing for two or three days, and is so restless at night that I have taken turn about with Mary to stay with her. She seems to get no sleep unless some one is sitting by her. I almost fancy she is afraid.

_June 2._

I have found out what ails Lady Betty. Anne has been telling her ghost stories. I hardly ever let Anne stay with her. But Mary's mother-in-law that is to be, is sick, and she, like the good girl that she is, wants to take her share in nursing the old woman. Then old Brewster has also been ill, and my dear Lady has asked me to see that she had her medicine properly, and to attend to various little matters for her: so I have been much more away from my child than usual.

Last night she was very restless, and started so at some strange sound, of which there are always plenty, that I asked her what was the matter.

"I am afraid!" she replied.

"Afraid of what?" I asked.

She would not tell me at first, but at last I coaxed her. Anne has told her I know not what tale of the ghost of a knight who walks in the long gallery. He is called the Halting Knight, because he had one leg shorter than the other, and Anne says that when any misfortune is about to happen to the family, he walks up and down all night, wringing his mailed hands, and tossing his arms over his head.

"There!" exclaimed the child, clinging to me. "Don't you hear it? Oh, what if he be come to presage the death of my mother!"

I certainly did hear something like a halting step: and at another time I might have been afraid myself. But I saw how necessary it was to soothe Betty, who was trembling all over.

"Dear heart! That noise you hear is not the Halting Knight," said I. "I cannot tell you just what makes it, but very likely it is the wind knocking a branch of ivy against the wall. Do not think about such frightful things, but remember how you have asked God to take care of you, and think about the holy angels that he sends to have charge of us."

Then I repeated the ninety-first psalm to her, and by degrees, she grew more composed.

"So you don't think it is the Halting Knight?" said she, presently.

"No, I don't," I answered: "and I will tell you why. If the knight was a good man when he was alive, and served God, I am sure he is in heaven, and that he would never care to come from that holy and happy place to walk up and down all night in the dark windy gallery. And if he is with wicked spirits, I am quite sure that God will not let him come out of prison to hurt them who put their trust in Him."

So I soothed her to sleep, and the rest of the night she rested tranquilly. She has been better to-day, though not well enough to go out of doors, and I have tried in every way to keep her mind diverted. Poor thing, she has trouble enough, without any fanciful fears.

_June 4._

My Lady asked me to-day some questions about my friends in London.

I told her I had none except my aunt Willson and Felicia, who was also my aunt, though I had never called her so, we being brought up together, and so near of an age. I spoke warmly, as I felt, in praise of Aunt Willson, and told how nobly she had come forward to help us in our troubles.

Then she asked me about Felicia. I hesitated, and then said, frankly:

"To tell you the truth, my Lady, I would rather not talk of her. We were never good friends, and I am afraid I might say more than I ought."

"Well, well!" said my Lady. "I will not ask you any more questions. My sister seems to think highly of her, but she is apt to take sudden fancies, especially when people are of her own way of thinking."

"Felicia must have changed a good deal if she is of Lady Jemima's way of thinking," said I. "But she can be very pleasant when she pleases, and she is very pretty. I hope she gets on well with my Aunt Willson. I hope she will not be discontented, and go back to mother again. I was so glad she went away before I did."

"Now you have told me all I wished to know," said my Lady.

Then laughing merrily at my discomfiture, she bade me not be disturbed—she should think none the less of me.

_June 8._

Mr. Penrose has finished all his decorations, and called me in to see them. There is a deal of gold lace and purple cloth, with silver-gilt candlesticks, and other trinkets, of which I do not even know the names. He would have me say how I liked it all.

"Honestly?" said I.

"Honestly, of course!" said he.

"Well then, to be plain with you, I like it not so well as before!" said I. "I think the old carven wood you have covered up much more beautiful than the embroidered cloth on it. And for the rest, I must say it puts me in mind of my little sister's baby-houses, or the Popish chapel my father once took me to see at my Lord Mountford's."

"You are something of a Puritan, I see, as your cousin says," said Mr. Penrose.

"I don't even know what a Puritan is," I answered, I am afraid rather too warmly for the place. "Felicia—I suppose it is she you mean by my cousin—used to call me a Puritan, because I did not like the East window in our church."

"And why did you not like it?" he asked.

"Because there was painted thereon the image of Him of whom no image should be made," I answered. "I could not think it right. It seemed to me like blasphemy. I don't see anything wrong about these decorations of yours, but they seem to me not at all suitable for a church."

"I am unfortunate in incurring your disapprobation," said he, stiffly.

"You asked me, you know," said I. "I could but say what I think. I am sorry if I have hurt you!"

"You have not hurt me—only as you always do hurt me," he answered, with such a strange quiver in his voice, that I looked at him in surprise.

He turned away, however, and began arranging some of the drapery about the altar. In doing so, the fringe caught on one of the tall, heavy candlesticks.

I saw that a fall was imminent, and sprang to save it, but I was too late. The candlestick fell, and as ill-luck would have it, struck me on the forehead, and the edge being sharp, made a pretty deep cut from which the blood flowed freely. I felt stunned and sick for a minute, but recovered myself, to see Mr. Penrose gazing at me with a face whiter than his band.

"It is naught!" said I, pulling my kerchief to my forehead. "Don't look so frightened, but help me to find Mrs. Judith."

For I was vexed at him, standing there as if rooted to the earth, never offering to help. It was rather unreasonable in me, too, but I do love folk to have their wits about them. He started, and recovered himself, and came forward to give me his arm.

Well, at last I got to Mrs. Judith's room, narrowly missing meeting my Lady, which was what I dreaded above all things. Mrs. Judith knew what she was about, at any rate, plastered up my head and bathed my face, and then helped me to my room. She would have had me lie still the rest of the day, but I did not like to leave my child, and I have felt no inconvenience since, save a headache, and now and then a strange sickness.

_June 28._

I did not think, when I laid down my pen, that three weeks would pass before I took it up again.

I felt the sickness coming over me again, and I suppose went to the window for air, for I was found senseless on the floor under the open casement, by Mrs. Judith, who, in her kindness, had come up before going to bed to see how I was. She called Mary and got me to bed, and for three or four days I was in considerable danger, it seems, but my good constitution and Mrs. Judith's nursing brought me through. I had no surgeon, for the nearest, who lives at Biddeford, had been called away. I was not sorry, for I did as well without him, and perhaps better.

I have been sitting up now for a week, and to-day ventured out of my room into the long gallery, greatly to the delight of Lady Betty, who thinks I must be almost well. The dear child was as good as possible all the time I was at the worst, so Mary tells me, even stifling her sobs when she was told that she would make herself sick, and that would grieve Mistress Merton.

Since I have been getting better, Mary has brought her in to see me every day, and she has spent hours, sitting in her chair, or lying on the bed beside me. At first I had hard work to persuade her to go out of doors without me, but at last she let old John carry her down, and Mary go with her. She brings me great nosegays of flowers every day, as well as long stories about the squirrels and the young birds, for now, as ever, she prefers the wood to the garden.

Every one has been very kind to me since I was sick. Only I fancied Lady Jemima (who has been at home more than a week,) treated me rather coldly. She brought me letters from aunt and Felicia, the latter sweet as honey—rather too sweet, in fact. Felicia is not apt to be so loving, unless she meditates a bite, or a scratch at the least.

Mr. Corbet has not yet returned, but his mother, who has been once to see me, tells me that she expects him in a few days. Oh, how I have longed and pined for home, and mother, since I have been sick! All the home-sickness I have felt before was as nothing to it. But I hope to get the better of this weakness when I am able to take up my work once more.

_July 1._

As I was sitting in the gallery this morning, who should come in but Mr. Penrose, whom I had not seen before since that unlucky day in the chapel. He looked pale and wretched enough, and I felt sorry for him.

"I am glad to see you up once more," said he, with something of a tremor in his voice. "I little thought what would be the end, when I called you into the chapel. If you had died—"

"You would doubtless have been much afflicted," said I, as he paused. "That would have been only natural, but even then, Mr. Penrose, you would have had no cause of self-reproach. Nobody would have been to blame—not even myself!"

"I would never have entered the desk again!" said he. "I would have sought some solitude—there are no convents now to retire to—and have given my life to fasting and penance forever after."

"Then you would have done a very wrong and foolish thing!" said I. "What if St. Paul had taken such a course? His crimes were committed of set purpose, yet did our Lord himself call him to the ministry, and that when he was upon the very errand of slaughter."

"I don't know that I ever thought of that," said he. "But you know Archbishop Abbot was deprived because he killed a man by accident when out hunting."

"I always thought it a very hard measure to the poor old gentleman," I said. "There was no malice in the act, and the archbishop did all in his power to make amends. My father was ever of the mind that if the Archbishop had been more of a courtier, his homicide would have troubled nobody."

Mr. Penrose looked a little grave upon this. I believe he thinks it little less than blasphemy to say a word against the present archbishop.

"But you see I was not killed, nor anything like it!" I continued. "So you may put off your purpose of retirement a little while."

"Do you feel quite yourself again?" he asked, anxiously.

"Why no, not altogether," I said. "I feel weak, and a little thing tires me, but I have no pain, and my head is quite clear. I had odd fancies while I was sick, Mr. Penrose. I remember them only dreamily, however, and hope to forget them altogether soon. I feel that I have much to be thankful for, both because my life was spared, and also for the care and kindness of all about me. It is not every poor girl, alone and among strangers, who meets with such friends."

"If Margaret had died, I would have died too!" said Betty, who had hitherto taken no part in the conversation.

"And so would I!" said Mr. Penrose.

But Betty was not pleased.

"She is not 'your' Margaret!" she retorted, with the pertness which I have not yet been able to cure: "I don't see any call that 'you' would have to die!"

I could not help smiling. But seeing Mr. Penrose's color rise, I chid Lady Betty, and bade her ask pardon, which she did readily enough, only rather spoiling it by repeating very decidedly, "But she is 'not' your Margaret, Mr. Penrose! She is mine!"

"I wont have any quarrelling about me!" said I. "Come, my dear, we have sat here long enough, and here comes Mary to say that our dinner is ready."

For since I have begun to sit up and move about a little, I have taken my meals with my child, an arrangement which she likes marvellously.

"Shall we not see you at the table soon?" asked Mr. Penrose.

"As soon as Mrs. Judith permits," I said. "I am at her orders, you know. Thank you, Mr. Penrose, for coming to see me."

"Can I do nothing for you?" he asked.

"There is one thing, if I may venture to ask so much," I said. "Would you find time to go down and read a chapter now and then to Dame Yeo at the almshouse. I promised to do so, but she must think me strangely forgetful."

To my surprise, he hesitated. "I would gladly do so," he answered, presently, "but I fear Doctor Parnell would think it an undue interference."

"I don't believe he would," said I. "He is a kind old man, and I believe he would be pleased with anything that pleased the old folks. At all events, you could speak to him about the matter. But do not do anything about it, if it is like to make any trouble."

"Oh, I will go!" said he.

And, I rather think he did go this very afternoon.

_July 3._

I felt so much better this morning that I coaxed Mrs. Judith to let me go out with Lady Betty into the wood. The day was lovely, and the whole air seemed full of the scent of hay. Lady Betty, who walks with more and more ease every day, ran about quite a good deal, and gathered wild flowers for me. Her little dog has done her a great deal of good in this respect, for she goes after him and joins in his play.

My Lady came out while we were in the wood and sat down by me. After looking at, and highly commending my work, which I had brought in my hand, and kindly telling me not to tire my eyes over it, she began to talk about Lady Betty, who was at a distance gathering some plants which had taken her fancy.

"You have done wonders during the little time you have had her in charge," said she. "I could never have thought to see her move so freely—so much like another child. If she had gained naught in learning, I should owe you a debt of gratitude for all you have down for her health."

"You owe me nothing, my Lady," I said. "I have but done my duty, and I would gladly have done ten times more. It is I who am in your debt for all your goodness to me."

"Well, well, we wont dispute the matter!" said she, with, her sweet, sad smile. "If only you can stay for a year or two—but I fear that will hardly be."

"I don't know why not, my Lady," I ventured to say. "Unless you tire of me, or I misbehave myself, which I trust not to do; I see no reason why I should not stay with Lady Betty as long as she needs a governess."

"Then you have yourself no desire to change your condition—to be anywhere else?" she asked, looking at me in a searching way, with her great beautiful eyes, as if she would read my inmost thoughts.

"My Lady," said I, "I will tell you the simple truth. I would rather be at home with my mother, even in her little cottage, than here in Stanton Court, though here I am lodged and waited upon as I never was before. But as for any other place, I speak but simple sooth in saying, that since I cannot be at home, I would rather be here than anywhere else in the world. Every one is kind to me, and I love my Lady Betty dearly. I have no wish to change my condition."

"It is well said, sweetheart, and as much as I could ask," said my dear Lady. "I could not in reason ask you to prefer any other place to home. But suppose some one comes and proffers you a house and home of your own, what then?"

"That is too large a supposition for my poor imagination!" said I, smiling. "A poor plain parson's daughter, without beauty or dower, is not like to attract many suitors, I fancy. Besides, if I were as beautiful as Mrs. Corbet, or the Fair Dame herself, I see nobody."

"You are like the princess in the fairy-tale, shut up in an enchanted castle!" said my Lady. "But you forget Mr. Penrose."

"Oh, he is nobody—so far as that goes!" said I. "He looks down upon me as an ignoramus and person of no family, and besides, he thinks me a Puritan!"

"What is a Puritan?" asked Lady Betty, coming up and leaning on my lap.

"That is more than I can tell you, my dear," said I; "unless it is a person who likes clear glass better than painted windows, and carven oak better than scarlet cloth and embroidery."

My Lady laughed and bade Betty see if she could find a clover with four leaves. When the child had set seriously about her search, she said to me, taking my hand, and speaking very earnestly:

"Margaret, will you make me a promise?"

"If I can, my Lady," I answered.

"Promise me then that you will not leave Betty for at least a year, whether I live or die. In the latter case, I do believe the child would not be long behind her mother—certainly not,—" she said, with a strange look in her face—"if, as some say, the dead mother hath the power of calling the child after her. But promise me that you will remain with my child for at least a year."

"I promise you, my Lady!" said I, as soon as I could speak. "I will not leave Lady Betty for a year, at least, unless I am sent away."

"You may not find things always as pleasant as now," she went on to say. "My sister-in-law sometimes takes strange fancies, and she has great influence with her brother, though they are so very different. But promise me that you will not leave my child for at least a year, even," she added, "if the fairy prince should come for you!"

"The fairy prince is not likely to come, unless, indeed, my poor dear father's ship should come home at last," said I. "But if he does, I shall send him about his business, my dear Lady. I am so glad you are pleased with me," said I, with a silly gush of tears, which, however, I could not help. I suppose because I am so weak still.

She smoothed my hair with her lovely hands, and said many kind things, and I recovered myself presently, and begged her pardon.

"Tut tut," said she, lightly. "Tell me about your father's ship."

So I told her all about it, and how we feared it had been a total loss, and how my brother had been obliged to change all his plans, with much more—too much, I fear, for it was so pleasant to talk of home, and she listened so kindly, that I hardly knew when to leave off.

_July 6._

Mr. Corbet has come back, and has brought me a great packet of letters and little keepsakes from the friends at home—so large a parcel that I fear it must have been inconvenient to him, but he made light of it.

Betty and I were out in the woods, as usual, she running about—for she can really run a little now—and I very busy with my pretty work, when Mr. Corbet came out of the side door and down to where I was sitting. Betty gave a cry of joy at seeing her cousin, whom she loves dearly, and with some reason, for he is ever kind and gentle with her. He caressed her, and gave her a pretty box of comfits he had brought, and then turned smiling to me.

"And Mrs. Merton must also have her box of comfits," said he, putting my precious packet into my hand. "I am sure to bring my welcome, since I come from Chester and Saintswell."

"And did you really go to Saintswell?" I asked.

"I really did," he answered. "I stayed a week with my good friend, Mr. Carey, and made acquaintance with your honored mother, and with Master Jacky and his sisters, as well as with many other folk, old and young, gentle and simple. I should have been much flattered by their attentions, only I was forced to lay all to the account of my knowing the last news of dear Mistress Margaret."

I asked him many questions, as to dear mother's looks, and I know not what all, some of which I doubt he thought silly enough. I know I asked him whether the twins were grown.

"That I can hardly tell you, as I never saw them before. But 'tis not likely that they have changed a great deal in three months," said he.

"I can't think that I have been hardly three months away," said I. "It seems so long since I have seen any of them." And then I began with new questions, which he answered patiently enough.

He told me that Mr. Carey seemed to be much liked by all his people, though some of them thought his preaching not so plain and simple as my father's. He had even been taken by the twins to see the almshouses, and had been able to give dear old Goody Crump news of her sister, and of other folk she had known. The old woman had sent me her blessing, as had also Dame Higgins; the latter hoping that I had safely kept her precious medal.

"We shall have to begin watching you as a dangerous person," said he, smiling: "since you deal with such trinkets as medals blessed by the pope."

"I could not well refuse the old woman's gift," I said. "'Tis but a bit of tarnished silver, when all is said. And as to the pope's blessing, I fancy, as Goody Higgins said, if it does no good, it can do no great harm—especially as I keep it with the stone old Esther gave me to keep off the witches."

"Do you believe in witches, Mrs. Merton?" asked Mr. Corbet.

"I never saw one," I answered. "We were happy in having none of those fearful troubles in our parish, which were so rife in this part of the country some years ago, and all our old women are very harmless folk. I believe Esther has her doubts of Goody Higgins, but that is only because the poor thing, being a papist, never goes to church. No, I don't think I have much belief in witches."

"Nor in ghosts?" he asked, smiling. "Are you not just a little afraid of the Halting Knight, when the wind blows hard o' nights? Or have you never heard his story?"

"O yes, I have heard all about him," I answered. "I dare not say that I have not sometimes listened for his lame step in the gallery, but I don't think I am much afraid of him, after all. I don't think, to say the truth, that I have it in me to be very much afraid of such things."

After that we fell into a pleasant chat till it was time for Betty to go into the house.

I have read my letters over and over—the long ones from dear mother and Richard, poor Jacky's short and somewhat blotted scroll, and the printed notes of the twins. I feel as if I had made a visit at home. So many little things can be told by word of mouth, which no one thinks of putting in a letter, and Mr. Corbet seems to have noticed everything, even to poor Punch, our three-legged, or rather three-footed cat, who lost his fore-paw in a rabbit-trap, and whom father would not have killed, but dressed the creature's wounds with his own hands, and nursed him till he got well.

He is a wonderful kind gentleman to take so much pains for me. I am so glad he and Richard took so to each other. It would seem but natural that they should, thinking so much alike on many subjects, but one can never guess beforehand how such things will turn out.

Richard says he makes progress in his studios, and that Master Smith is kind and generous as ever. He still hears much of public affairs, and I can see that he does not like the complexion of them, and doth fear much trouble and discontent, arising from the high-handed proceedings of the Archbishop and the Star Chamber.

He writes me that Mr. Prynne, the barrister, an old friend of my father's, and one who hath been many times at our house since my remembrance, is in prison, and like to fare badly. He was always a bugbear to us children, with his sour, austere face, and his perpetual arguments with my father, wherein he was ofttimes so sharp and rude that a less sweet-tempered man would have at the least declined his acquaintance. But my father always said there was much good in him, and I know that he was ever liberal in giving to the poor. I shall be sorry to hear of any great harm coming to him, poor man. It seems he hath writ a book concerning stage plays, whereat the Court are much offended.